


Chang

by ameerkatofficial



Series: The Boy from Hukow [1]
Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameerkatofficial/pseuds/ameerkatofficial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tearful goodbye with Tintin's good friend Chang Chong-Chen, set during the end of "The Blue Lotus".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chang

**Author's Note:**

> I had a mighty need to write Tintin fanfiction today, and this guy is legit my childhood. I was obsessed with the comics when I was younger. I only hope I've done him justice here...especially since I haven't read any in years!

Tintin was an emotional sort, especially after a bit of good drink in good company. So how else could this scene be described? The poor boy was now bent over his dear friend’s shoulder, laughing, weeping, as an abandoned game of chess lay beside them.

“Why do you weep, friend?” the other boy, Chang, asked with a faint giggle to his voice, comfortingly patting his friend’s back, “Are you upset that you’ve lost?”

The weeping boy could only sniffle and sigh at this, wiping his eyes as he gave a jesting shove at his friend, “ _No!”_ he cried, “You think I’m so petty?”

But all that could be received from the red-headed boy was rosy cheeks and burbling laughter that could be mistaken for sobs, as he ruffled his fingers through Chang’s lovely dark hair, in awe of how the straight, black locks would fall back into place every time. But even this gained a guffaw out of Chang, who liked the feel of his friend’s fingertips through his silken strands.

“Then why do you weep, Tintin? You’ve dampened my shirt enough already!”

Why did he weep indeed? In light of all that had happened, why wouldn’t he weep? Why didn’t he weep all this time? Had he forgotten to weep, petrified half to death all this time? Had he not had the urge to shed even a tear when he was imprisoned, taken, hidden, even arrested by his own friends? He had imagined his own death so often that it seemed like a memory. Had Tintin peered into the eyes of death so often that he had forgotten to fear them?

With a huff and a sigh and another twitch of his nose, Tintin took the boy’s hands in his and shook his head, “I’m going to miss you, Chang, that’s why,” he spoke softly, “I’m leaving tomorrow for Brussels…and…”

The words fell away from his lips, and he pursed them in hopes of finding more, but instead they trembled as he offered the boy a watery smile.

But Chang’s fell away, his lashes suddenly brushing over his dark eyes, the colour of tea by the lamplight. But his grip did not relent, if only intensified as he squeezed the Belgian’s hands into his lap.

“You will write, won’t you?” he became suddenly hoarse, blinking softly, “ _Won’t you?”_

Tintin was silenced for the moment by the sheer force of the other boy’s hands, shocked at his strength, how quickly he had recovered it.

“Of course I will,” his voice hardly broke the night’s hush as he pulled his hand away, leaning it against his friend’s cheek, “I-I-I’ll write as much as I can. Every day if I can—I will! _I swear!_ ”

There wasn’t so much talk then, hardly a breath between them. The only sounds were of the night, of the chirping crickets, of the rush of the river.

_“You will?”_

_“I will.”_

How the river would ring with its high notes of splashes, its lower undertones that left a perpetual thrum, giving the night a soft hum against the buzzing cicadas, the chirping crickets and the hushed whisper of the night wind.

“ _You promise?”_

_“I promise.”_

The wind made the reeds by the river sing like flutes. But how the rushing, hushing wind seemed to guide them closer in silence, hearts and minds become so close so fast, too fast that they each felt as hollow as the river’s reeds, their lips each shut from fear of singing too—

—until they parted again to breathe, and out of fear, they suddenly shut together.

Tintin’s lashes fluttered, his breath suddenly stopped as he gave a small noise of shock, fingertips digging into Chang’s cheek for something to hold onto as his heart pounded once again, that thrumming, drumming sound loud in his ears, louder than ever before!

“ _Chang?_ ”

It was a gasp, as he scrabbled for something to hold onto, a shirt, hand, his own mind as he tried to make sense of it all, his suddenly rushing breaths, the prickling heat at the tips of his ears.

He didn’t remember how the chessboard had gotten knocked over by morning’s light, only how fragile the boy seemed to be. They were of nearly the same age, and yet Chang seemed frightfully small, and even Tintin was afraid of touching him too roughly, or even crushing him somehow. He could reach his hands around Chang’s wrists, engulf the boy’s hands with his own, feel his skeleton through his skin. But the boy was also soft, so terribly soft and warm. And how he sounded of the wind rushing through the river’s reeds, such soft, high sighs.

Morning’s gold peeked through the screens as curious birds chirped away, but the game pieces were tidied and put away, and as was the boy, who lay in his bed with a blanket laid lovingly over his form.

“ _Tintin?_ ”

“Good morning, Chang…”

The Belgian stood in the door, a soft smile upon him, as he was dressed now in his Western attire, looking so strange to the young Chinese boy, so grown up…

But the stiffness of his collar did not seem to bother Tintin in the slightest as he entered with ease, seeming to float upon the edge of the bed.

“Tintin!” the boy cried in a mix of sorrow and delight, suddenly grabbing to the elder’s arm, causing him to wince with a groan.

“ _Ngh!_ ”

“ _Oh!_ ”

Panic and crimson flooded the younger’s features as he let go of the other, holding to his hand instead with a cry of “ _I am sorry!”_

But the Belgian waved it away with a chuckle, a hearty “It’s still _tender_ ” and a sigh, as his eyes averted from how the morning light caught the golden undertones of Chang’s skin.

But he pecked the boy upon the lips, suddenly bold but now shrinking away again, blinking fast. “Get dressed. Breakfast is ready,” he quickly murmured before he slipped out of the room, leaving his shock of ginger hair only to be a memory in the air. 

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops it got gay. But hey, felt a need to write more on why Tintin gets so damn emotional around Chang. Love can make ya crazy~


End file.
